\ WOMAN ALONE 




PRESENTED HY 



A WOMAN ALONE 



OTHER PLAYS BY THE 
SAME AUTHOR 

THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 

A LONG DUEL 

THREE PLAYS, a volume containing 
Hamilton's Second Marriage 
Thomas and the Princess 
The Modern Wat 

Several One Act pieces 



A WOMAN ALONE 

IN THREE ACTS 



BY 



MRS. W. K, CLIFFORD 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS 

1915 



*** 



V 0'; 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Copyright 

in the United States of 

America 



JUl 5 1915 



Printed in Great Britain by 
BaUantyne, Hanson and Company Ltd 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Richard Bowden 

Henry Langton, his cousin 

Jack Percival 

Sir Horace Taylor 

Algy Carstairs, a poet 

Widhurst, an actor 

Hbsketh, an editor 

Bertram, a young Cambridge man 

A VISITOR (at Innsbruck) 

Blanche Bowden 
Millicent Percival 
Mrs. Vynor 
Countess Augusta 
Mrs. Martin 

Servants, Porters, etc. 



Act I— An Ante-room in the Bowdens' house, 
Green Street, Park Lane. 

Four years ago. 

Act II — Hall of the Kaiserhof, Innsbruck. 

Two years ago. 

Act III— Blanche Bow den's drawing-room in 
Green Street Present time. 



PREFACE 

"A Woman Alone" appeared in the Nineteenth 
Century and After last spring: considerations of 
space made some omissions necessary. Three special 
performances were given at the Little Theatre 
late in July ; but as the end of the Season was near 
the rehearsals were few and somewhat hurried. 
Miss Lillemor Halvorsen, the distinguished Nor- 
wegian actress, created the part of Blanche Bowden, 
and so beautifully that she almost persuaded me to 
like my own work : that was a new sensation. 

Any interest the play has was meant to lie in the 
attitude of its chief characters towards current 
ideas. In Blanche Bowden I wanted to draw a 
woman full of intellectual energy and ideals who, since 
she was not strong enough to carry them on to achieve- 
ment alone, longed to see them take shape in the life 
that was dearest to her. She finds herself handi- 
capped by natural feminine instincts and comes to 
realise that the affections have still an unsuspected, 
sometimes an overwhelming, power of their own. 

In this, the only acting version of the play, there 
are a good many slight but important alterations and 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

additions. I mention them lest some tired reviewer 
should write anything about it from his memories of 
the original version ; just as two or three dramatic 
critics, who had evidently read it in the Nineteenth 
Century, seem to have written about the theatre per- 
formance. But life is short and time for anything at 
all more and more difficult to find : this makes me 
very grateful for all that some most kind and thought- 
ful writers did for me. 



L. C. 



7 Chilworth Street, 
London, W. 



ACT I 

Time : Four years ago. Afternoon. 

Scene : A small drawing-room or ante-room at the 
Bowdens' house in Green Street, Park Lane. 
Well-furnished. Fireplace R., door l. Facing 
stage drawn curtains suggest a larger room beyond. 
Sitting over the fire is Henry Langton, thin, 
delicate, and about forty. Pause. Jack and 
Millicent Percival come through the curtains. 
They are young and happy looking. 

Millicent. Why, it's Mr. Henry Langton. 

Langton. How do you do, Mrs. Percival ? 

[Re has a dry cynical voice. 

Millicent. I was so sorry to hear you had been ill. 

Jack. Better, old chap ? 

Langton. Not much. [Warms one hand.] I am 
waiting on the chance of seeing Richard. ... So 
glad there's a fire — some people won't have one if the 
month happens to be called July. 

Millicent. [Sympathetic] I know 

Langton. I'm always chilly — in England; fires 
should be compulsory all the year round after five in 
the afternoon. 

1 a 



2 A WOMAN ALONE 

Millicent. Are you going in to see Mrs. Bowden ? 

Langton. No, thank you. She has enough visitors 
without me. I don't feel up to her level to-day. She 
is my relation since she married Richard — so there's 
no reason why T should be civil. 

Jack. Afraid of her ? 

Langton. No — but ... I can't talk to clever 
women — they have so many loose ends about them, 
you never know which they'll take up next. 

Millicent. I think she's wonderful. 

Langton. I like them commonplace. 

Millicent. Oh — but — she isn't strong-minded or 
anything of that sort, and she is very sympathetic. [To 
her husband.] I told her to-day that we'd only been 
married two months. She asked if she might come 
and see us — I think she knows how happy we are. 

Jack. [To Langton.] Do you hear her ? I try to 
treat her well. 

Langton. [Cynically.'] Ah ! Early days — but I dare 
say you'll get on better than Richard and his wife. 

Millicent. Oh, but they adore each other. I know 
she adores him, that is . . . Why should you think 
they won't be happy ? 

Langton. I didu't say that. But when a man of 
seven-and-thirty and a woman of eight-and-twenty 
marry, I expect they've managed to rake in a good 
many opinions of their own beforehand and stick to 
them — at any price occasionally. 

Jack, He hates the crowd she has gathered round 
her. 



A WOMAN ALONE 3 

Millicent. She can't help it, people run after her 
so. 

Langton. [ With a shrug!] Every one seems to know 
her — and they've only been married a year. . . . Her 
name is in printed lists, too, pretty often ; that sort of 
thing grows on a woman like a taste for drugs. 

[Mrs. Vynor, young and pretty, enters through the 
curtains. 

Mrs. Vynor. Oh ! Mrs. Percival, you are still here ! 
[To Langton.] How do you do ? 

Jack. [Aside to Langton.] It's Mrs. Vynor. 

Mrs. Vynor. [Hesitating.] I forgot to ask Mrs. 
Bowden who was likely to be put up for the Royal 
Academy next week. 

Langton. [Drily.] She would know, of course ? 

Mrs. Vynor. Oh yes, she knows everything. . . . 
It doesn't matter. I won't go back. 

Millicent. How is your little girl ? I wanted to 
ask you just now. 

Mrs. Vynor. Better ; but she had a temperature this 
morning. Mrs. Bowden called twice in one day last 
week to ask after her, and sent such wonderful 
flowers. 

Millicent. I am certain she is a dear. 

Mrs. Vynor. She is — but I must go. I wish I'd 
asked her about the election — Geoffrey will be vexed 
at my forgetting. He couldn't come himself — he 
was so disappointed. 

Millicent. [Turning to her husband.] Did you hear 



4 A WOMAN ALONE 

that ? Mr. Vynor was disappointed at not coming 
himself. 

Mrs. Vynor. Of course he was, and [with a sigh] 
he is dreadfully down on most women. Good-bye. So 
glad we met to-day. [Exit Mrs. Vynor. 

Millicent. [To Langton.] Don't you want to see 
her? 

Langton. No. 

Jack. She's fascinating — even that woman has 
succumbed. 

Langton. [Reluctantly.'] I acknowledge it. ... I 
believe she's bothering Eichard to go into politics. 

Millicent. Why shouldn't he ? 

Langton. Why should he ? He'd hate it. What 
he likes is to bury himself in the country or some 
place where he is not likely to meet anyone who has 
ever seen him before. 

Millicent. Do you know his mother ? But of 
course you do. She told me [Stops, 

Langton. You needn't be afraid. ... It was 
probably something disagreeable ? 

Millicent. She said that before he was married he 
often went away for months at a time and gave no 
one his address. 

Langton. [Nods.] It was one of his provoking 
habits. . . . He took himself off for a year just after 
he had taken his degree — matters weren't to his 
liking at home, or something displeased him. His 
theory is if you don't like a thing go away from it — 
if you don't like a man, cut him. 



A WOMAN ALONE 5 

Jack. There's a good deal to be said for it. 

Langton. Once he was away for two or three years 
and not a soul knew whether he was alive or dead, 
for he never writes a letter — and it doesn't occur to 
him to telegraph. 

Jack. It was during one of those absences that he 
first met his wife. 

Langton. [Looking up.] In Vienna. . . . But you 
were with him, Percival ? 

Jack. Yes. It was through me, in fact, that they 
did meet. I took him to old Count Zipernowsky's. 

Langton. I know. But I never heard much about 
it. I was away. Who precisely was Ziper — Ziper — 
something ? 

Jack. Her uncle — he used to make speeches, very 
fine nonsense they sounded — a splendid old chap 
with white hair. He lived in a palace that was 
crumbling to bits. She looked after him and held a 
court once a week. I expect that's how she got at all 
this business. Heaps of men were at her feet, but I 
was amazed when Richard went down. . . . [To his 
wife.] Look here, we must be off. We ought to have 
gone half an hour ago. [To Langton.] We're going to 
a restaurant dinner and the play. She loves a spree. 

Langton. I believe people do that sort of thing 
when they are newly married. 

Millicent. [Gaily.] It's all so exciting. 

Jack. You see, she lived in the country till she 

was married — and picked buttercups and daisies 

Millicent. I didn't . 



6 A WOMAN ALONE 

Jack. [Teasing.] Well, played lawn tennis and 
went to tea at the vicarage. 

[The Percivals are about to go when enter 
Richard Bowden door l. He is tall and 
handsome, about thirty-eight, ivith an ofc- 
stinate indolent manner; gives an impression 
of being reserved. 
Jack. Here is Richard. 
Richard. Why — are you going, Jack ? 
Jack. Must, I'm afraid, awfully sorry. But glad 

to have caught sight of you for a minute Come, 

Millie. 

Millicent. How do you do, Mr. Bowden, and 
good-bye. [Shakes hands.] We are going out on a 
little spree — we shall be late. 

Richard. I hope it will be a good one. 

[Exeunt Jack and Millicent. 
Richard. Are you better ? 

[It is evident that the two men like each other. 
Langton. A little — it doesn't matter. . . . I'm 
going away — directly almost. Think I shall live 
abroad for the future. 

Richard. [Anxiously.] You can manage it ? 
Langton. I must — this beastly climate does for me. 
I have been hoping you would come in — waited ou 
the chance. I didn't venture to intrude there. 

[Kods towards oth@r room, 
Richard. Are there many fools left ? 
Langton. I think not. [Richard makes a sound of 



A WOMAN ALONE 7 

satisfaction.] The cackling has been growing fainter 
for some time. 

Richard. That's it — cackle — cackle. 

Langton. Lord Faringhurst went out as I came in 
— judging from his mysterious air he had been telling 
your wife a few Cabinet secrets. Or perhaps she 
wants him to find you another job. Didn't he give 
you that mission to Petersburg ? 

Richard. Yes. 

Langton. You've done nothing since — let your 
great talents run to seed. 

Richard. For God's sake let my great talents go to 
the devil if they like. 

Langton. What has become of the political ideas 
you were hatching two years ago ? 

Richard. [With a quick smile.] I was pretty eager 
about them, wasn't I? [Crosses the room.] . . . I hate 
all this nonsense — we have dined out five times this 
week. One night we went to the Geographical, 
to-night we go to the Foreign Office. There have 
been people to luncheon twice — to discuss some 
philanthropic scheme she has joined. . . . One after- 
noon there was a tom-fool committee here — some 
precious society for keeping people at home in the 
evenings 

Langton. I should have thought you would 
approve of that ? 

Richard. Not if they make it an excuse to invade 
my home, , . , Besides, I dislike women who mix 
themselves up with public matters. , , , These 



8 A WOMAN ALONE 

drawing-room cackles are the thin end of the 
wedge. 

Langton. [Cynically.] They mean to drive it in. 
But I don't think Blanche will do it — offensively. 
[Richard gives a snort.] . . . You ought to be proud 
of her ; she's a fashion. And ambitious, I believe — 
for you. 

Richard. Ambitious people annoy me. They de- 
generate into pushers if they are women. 

Langton. [Quickly.] Blanche will never be a 
pusher. 

Richard. [With a hard note in his voice.] No, I'll 
take care she isn't. 

Langton. You ought to have married a pretty 
little simpleton like Percival's wife. She would have 
suited you much better. 

Richard. She would have bored me to death 

[A man comes out of the inner room. 

Langton. Here's the great editor. 

Richard. [Coldly.] How do you do, Hesketh ? 

Hesketh. How do you do and good-bye. I've had 
a delightful talk with your wife ; she has been telling 
me that I must get some fresh blood into the paper ; a 
few young slashers who can write good English, and 
are ready to solve the Universe whenever you please. 
She's quite right. We want waking up. 

Richard. What people call waking up is making 
this country unfit to ive in. 

Hesketh. Oh. . . Well, see you at the F.O. to- 
night — I don't know what your wife is saying to Sir 



A WOMAN ALONE 9 

Horace Taylor ; but he seems mighty pleased. I hear 
he has been given some Foreign Order, by the way, 
and has leave to wear it. [Exit Hesketh. 

Richard. [To Langton.] Should like to see him 
get an order for Siberia from the Russian Ambassador 
— who, I suppose, hasn't power to give it. 

Langton. I fear not. . . . Didn't Blanche see a 
good many people before she was married ? 

Richard. Too many — the result of living with that 
old wind-bag, Zipernowsky. I believe she wrote his 
speeches. 

Langton. You ought to be glad she didn't make 
them. 

[Sir Horace Taylor comes through the cur- 
tains, followed by Algy Carstairs. 

Sir Horace. Ah, Bowden, how do you do? 
Mustn't stop to talk to you. Carstairs and I have 
both stayed far too long, but your wife is so eloquent 
— told me all the benefits the Italians gained from the 
Austrian occupation. Never understood it before. 

Algy Carstairs. [Who is affected and intense.'] Sir 
Horace is entirely subjugated by the beautiful lady 
with the soulful eyes. 

Richard. [Coldly.'] Indeed — what does soulful 
mean? 

Algy Carstairs. The soul is the little seed from 
heaven that is sown in every human being — and the 
rest depends on ourselves, whether it expands and 
grows and soars, or withers and falls lower and lower 



10 A WOMAN ALONE 

into the earth ; and the eyes are the soul's indicators, 
its messengers. 

Richard. [Shortly.'] Oh. 

Sir Horace. [Amused.] This man speaks as a poet. 
You should have heard him in there. 

Algy Carstairs. Mrs. Bowden is so stimulating. 
She makes one feel as if one had genius, and that its 
achievements might be delayed but were certain. She 
is a lamp that shows the way. 

Richard. Glad to hear it. A lamp is a most con- 
venient thing to have in the house. 

Algy Carstairs. [To Sir Horace.] He will under- 
stand later — even for him she will light the difficult 
paths. [To Richard.] She has given me permission to 
dedicate my next volume of poems to her — I am going 
to the publisher now. 

Richard. Do, I wouldn't detain you for the world. 
Good-bye. [To Sir Horace.] We shall meet to-night, 
I suppose ? 

Sir Horace. Of course. Come, Carstairs, if I'm 
to drop you. 
* Algy Carstairs. I come. 

[Exeunt Sir Horace and Algy Carstaiks. 

Richard. [As he looks after them.] I wish some one 

would dedicate your funeral sermon to her. . . . [To 

Langton.] Are there any more in there ? 

Langton. I don't think so — yes, Widhuret, 

Richard, He is the gaping idiot who wants to act 

and can't — so he talks about some asinine scheme he 



A WOMAN ALONE 11 

calls a theatre of intellect— with other people's money, 
and himself as manager, of course. 
Langton. Here he is ! 

[Enter Widhurst, young, evidently in a hurry. 

Widhurst. [To Richard.] Ah, how do you do ? I 
have heen having a most interesting talk with Mrs. 
Bowden. She has promised me an introduction to 
Thornthwaite— she knows everybody. I told her I 
should prefer just to walk on—it leaves one time for 
thought and observation. 

Richard. Suit you, no doubt— you had some 
scheme ? 

Widhurst. I have— a great one. But the moment 
is not ripe for it j meanwhile I must humour the 
philistine. Good-bye. 1 

Richard. Good-bye. [Exit Widhurst. 

Langton. What sort of a chap was this Ziper- 

nowsky ? 

Richard. . Oh, the usual indefinite fanatic. . . . 
Blanche made half his success and his own picturesque 
appearance did the rest. Most of the fanatical people 
are not fit to look at, He was, and [half tenderly) 
she is, I don't mean that she's a fanatic— but she 
has ideals, and that sort of thing— which is nearly as 
bad, Women are so restless nowadays. I wish I 
could get her away, Luckily the season is nearly over, 

Langton, The season is an accursed time ; when 
all the idiots ineligible for asylums are let loose in 
London. Naturally a nice woman, who doesn't know, 



12 A WOMAN ALONE 

takes them seriously. . . . This is her first year in 
England. 

Richard. But she knows the world. She's a 
woman, not a girl. ... I should like to get away 
again — alone. It suits me to be alone, always did. 
Or, I wish I were going with you. 

Langton. The manner in which I rough it wouldn't 
suit you. I'm a poor man and you are a rich 
one. 

Richard. You needn't rough it. 

Langton. [Drily.] I prefer it. . . . The only thing 
I shall miss is your society. I like it, in spite of 
your unfortunate temper. I always regretted not 
going to Innsbruck that time you asked me. 

Richard. [Who has not been listening.'] Suppose I 
take you as far as Italy ? When do you start ? 

Langton. Next week, I don't want you, Richard. 

[Gets up. 

Richard. [Chafing.] I was not made for this sort of 
thing ; I feel caged, caught in a net ... I wonder 
why men marry ? 

Langton. Perhaps she wonders why women marry. 
[Enter Bertram from the inner curtains. 

Bertram. Ah, Mr. Bowden, I'm just going. One 
moment ! [Goes back.] Mrs. Bowden 

Richard. Who is that idiot ? 

Langton. He is [a shrug] I don't know. Yes, 

I do. Rather a nice chap, called Bertram — just 
taken his degree. Well, good-bye. [About to go, turns 
back.] By the way, who was the comfortable German 



A WOMAN ALONE 13 

woman I met here the other day — Countess Augusta ; 
is she a daughter of Count Ziper ? 

Richard. No, his daughter-in-law. She has been 
over here on a visit — going back to Vienna to-morrow. 
She's too fat. 

Langton. I like them fat. They are comfortable 
to look at in cold weather. Good-bye. [Exit. 

Bertram. I am the very last. Good-bye. 

[Exit hurriedly. 

[Richard Bowden alone, stands by fireplace 

watching the curtains. They open and 

Blanche is seen facing stage. She is 

tall, beautiful, somewhat imperious. In 

moments of excitement she speaks with a 

slight foreign accent. 

Blanche. Rich-ard [sounds like a caress], you are 

there ! Why did you not come in ? . . . You are 

not cross any more ? 

Richard. I'm tired of the people who crowd this 
house for the sake of hearing themselves speak. The 
whole thing is a nuisance and must come to an end. 

Blanche. [.4 little amused.] "Why, you are more 
cross — even than before ? I am so tired of foolish 
little quarrels. 

Richard. You bring them on yourself . My mother 
told me that she found you, with a crowd round you, 
discussing matters that were better left alone — or 
she supposed so, for when she entered the talk 
suddenly flagged. 



14 A WOMAN ALONE 

She. It did flag, bub it was not for that reason. 
. . . What else did she say ? 

He. [Evidently chafed at his mother's sarcasm.] She 
asked if you were trying to get me into the Cabinet. 

She. And you said ? 

He. That if ever I did get into it the door would 
not be opened by a woman. 

She. You wouldn't like that ? 

He. [With a snap.] No, I should not. . . . You are 
never happy unless you imagine you are in the whirl 
of things and have a crowd of people round you. 

She. It is quite true, my Richard. I like to think 
that I am in the whirl, not sitting still, doing nothing, 
thinking about nothing, being nothing. . . . And I 
like the people who come here and tell me of all that 
is going on. 

He. I do not. 

She. But why don't you, Richard ? They are not 
useless ; they belong to the crew of the ship. 

He. Ship? 

She. Isn't the world a big ship ? There are the 
passengers and the crew who make it go — it is the 
crew that come here. There are those who do 
politics, those who fight — the men who make history, 
or pictures, or music — they all make something that 
helps the world to go on. You will not live always 
not making something yourself ? [Goes nearer to him.] 

He. [Coldly.] What I make, as you call it, is my 
own affair. 

She. But you are my affair ; I want to gain for 



A WOMAN ALONE 15 

you those things for which you yourself will not 
stretch out a hand. I should like to see you a king ! 
Sometimes I say to myself you shall be one — the real 
kings of the earth are the uncrowned ones. 

He. [Determined not to be propitiated.] This is 
nonsense. . . . Next Saturday people shall be told 
that you are not at home. 

She. [Sitting down opposite him.] We will give up 
the people if you wish, cher ami — is there anything 
else that vexes you ? 

He. And I will not be annoyed by constantly 
coming across your name in print. 

She. [Teasingly.] But it does look nice, doesn't it ? 

He. Just now I had a telegram asking me to help 
with a festival of which you are a patroness 

She. Oh yes — And you answered ? 

He. I answered No, 

She. [With a little laugh.] Oh — oh — but, my 
darling, that was wicked — very wicked. . . . [A long 
pause.] Rich-ard ? 

He. Yes? 

She. [Leaning forward eagerly.] What are we going 
to do with our lives? 

He. Do with them ? 

She. How are we going to pay for them ? 

He. Pay for them ? 

She. Pay the world that lets us live in it, breathe 
in it, covers us with its beautiful sky, and gives 
us strength and health and a thousand things 
besides 



16 A WOMAN ALONE 

He. Including various ills and worries. 

She. They are penalties. We have to pay for all 
the good things we have, and for the bad ones we do 
— to pay a great deal for the bad ones, that is 
certain. 

He. This is some of Uncle Zipernowsky's precious 
teaching — how are we to pay for the good things ? 

She. "We who are rich and strong can pay with the 
lives we live and the work we do — work that others 
who have to fight for daily bread cannot afford to do. 

He. Socialism. 

She. [Firmly.] No, Richard, not that. I don't 
want to give away our money and goods ; but we have 
time and opportunity ; it is as wicked to throw them 
away as — as to throw away food that would feed 
hungry people. [He looks at her in wonder.] . . . 
Besides, we cannot live shut up in this little house, 
seeing no one, doing nothing that is any good. 

He. We can be quiet — and together. A year 
after marriage people usually live sensible unruffled 
lives. 

She. It is why they are often so dull. They settle 
down ^to the little circle and the family life ; they 
shut all the windows looking outwards and live 
sensible unruffled lives. ... It is not enough, not 
enough, dear Richard. 

He. My mother and sisters had none of the ex- 
citements you have gathered round you — and they 
have been content. 

She. [Nods.] And they are very dull. They have 



A WOMAN ALONE 17 

only little trivial matters to think about. They stay 
in a still house and have nothing to do, and they do 
not understand the people who want to live, who must 
live as long as they stay in the world. . . . We must 
go on — and on — if we want to keep hold of life. 

He. Where did you get all these notions ? You 
hadn't them when we first met. 

She. [Eagerly.] Yes, yes, always. My uncle was 
getting old ; he used to say I must carry on his 
work. But — you came and made me love you. 
[Goes up to him.] It was like the tide of the sea, and 
swept me into your arms. I am glad. . . . But if 
you had not come, some day I should have done 
things — I, your Blanche, would have done them. 

He. My dear, I can't bear ambitious women. 
[Puts his arms round her and she nestles joyfully, 
but anxiously, in them.] There, [tenderly] isn't she 
happiest when her man's arms are round her ? 

She. [JVods.] Oh, I love being here . . . and I am not 
ambitious for myself any more — it is for you — for 
you [with a long sigh] ... I could not bear to think 
that I had married a man who did nothing ! 

He. [Brushing back her hair.] Is it nothing to love 
you? 

She. [Simply and appealing.] It is my life. But 
you do not love me dreadfully — dreadfully much ? 

He. I love you as much as most men love their 
wives — perhaps more. 

She [Drearily.] Perhaps more. . . . 

He [Kissing her forehead and then letting her go.] 



18 A WOMAN ALONE 

Give up all these silly notions ; we will live quietly 
in the country 

She. No, no [shakes her head] ; it is not as if you 
had land to cultivate — or duties there. [£ii5s.] We 
will go by and by, when we are old. Or if God 
sends us children, or if you have work to do, that is 
better done apart. But now you must not deprive 
your country of that which has been born with you, 
for its use. 

He [Standing by her.] You talk such nonsense 
[half impatiently, half tenderly]. You mean to say 
that we have no right to be happy and enjoy life 
together on the money that I have inherited ? 

She. But anyone can inherit. It is no merit at 
all. And we can't go on like this . . . you would 
grow stupid, dearest — yes, you would. . . . [Touches 
his hand.] And women must have children to mother 
or work to do, or their lives are useless. Oh, Richard, 
won't you see it ? If you went into Parliament, for 
instance? You have a clear head, you are clever, 
you have time to give to public affairs — it is the best 
men who should direct them. Yes, darling, it is — 
[caressing his hands as he stands by her], and I will 
make all the little conditions of your life so easy 
that you will do your best, your very best work. 

He. [Evidently thinking and not listening,] We 
will go abroad for a bit, then we shall get away from 
— all this nonsense. 

She. [Rathsr catching at the prospect.] Yes, let us 
go abroad » But not for too long — for pleasure that 



A WOMAN ALONE 19 

does not come after work or difficulty is soon 
wearisome. 

He. Work — work again ! What next? 

She. What next ? Why this ! [with a queer little 
smile] Some day I think people will be taken up for 
idleness. 

He. [Trying to hide the fact that he is growing angry.] 
I hate the everlasting movement of the time, and the 
restless platform women 

She. [Quickly.] I am not one of those — I do not 
want to be — though I want to be allowed intelligent 
interests, in my home. That is what women have 
been struggling for in this country — to be allowed 
intelligent interests, and occupations, without jeers 
and patronage, and because this has not been recog- 
nised, they have gone to extremes. 

[He moves impatiently. 

She. You don't understand. Women are different 
now from when our mothers were young. They know 
more, they have thought more, learnt more — and they 
want to have their part — but not the bigger part ; 
and it is only the people who are old-fashioned, or 
narrow, who are afraid of giving women a little share 
of life. . . . They cannot bear the useless life any 
longer, unless they are stupid. If I helped you 

He. You want me to worry myself with the wear 
and tear of public life against my own inclinations ? 

She. I want you to make a career — to justify our 
existence. 

He, Justify our existence ! What rubbish I Under- 



20 A WOMAN ALONE 

stand once for all — I will not have my house made 
intolerable, nor my life laid out for me. 

She. I do not want to lay it out; but you are 
growing angry 

He. Yes, I am growing angry; it is for me to 
choose the life I lead, not you. Women have become 
a public nuisance with their demands and intellect and 
energy. [A pause. In a hard voice.] We married because 
we thought we should be happy together — if we find 
we were mistaken we will try being happier apart. 

She. [Dismayed.] You would do that ! 

He. Most certainly. If you cannot leave me alone 
to live as I choose, and unless you make this house 
the sort of place in which I care to stay, I shall leave 
it. I hate quarrels, and when people annoy me I 
usually go away from them. 

She. [Shivers.] I cannot bear that you should speak 
to me in that tone. . . . You expect me to live here, 
depending on your humours and content with so little 
— you give me no companionship — we seldom discuss 
anything apart from our common interests in the 
house — or the people we have met at foolish parties. 
I want more — you do not give me enough. 

He. Home is a woman's place, and the life of a 
normal woman — the one she is best fitted for — should 
satisfy her. 

She. Not now — she has gone on — though I do not 
know what you mean by a normal woman — I think it 
is a stupid one. 

He. [Taking no notice of the interruption^ You can 



A WOMAN ALONE 21 

play about — I believe that is the term nowadays — in 
the house, and amuse yourself in a manner that has 
contented many charming women. I don't care for 
society, but I will take you to parties or theatres 
occasionally, if you desire it. You can become inti- 
mate with various people, and I will not interfere — if 
I approve of them. But I will not have this nonsense 
going on — this struggle for a public or intellectual 
life — women are not meant for it, nor fit for it. I'm 
quite aware that a few exceptional women have had 
salons and so on, but in my opinion they were not 
desirable women. You can subscribe to charitable or 
social functions occasionally if you wish ; but I will 
not have your name flaunted in lists of committees 
for tom-fool objects, nor of people interested in modern 
movements — of which I do not usually approve — and 
you are not to give it to anyone — anywhere — without 
my permission. Do you hear? 

She. [Staring at him.] Yes, I hear. You want me 
to live the sort of life that has been sufficient for 
your mother and sisters. 

He. [Firmly.] Yes. 

She. And you do not mean to give me more com- 
panionship than you have given me since — since six 
months after we married. 

He. No. My method has been to live much to 
myself, and I intend to go on with it. . . . And I 
will not let you make this house intolerable with a 
crowd of people I do not want. It was perfectly 
ridiculous to-day. Henry and I were in this room — 



22 A WOMAN ALONE 

it felt like a waiting-room — while you and your set 
gabbled in there, and imagined you were helping the 
world to go on 

She. But you go out. You go to your club— you 
are away often for hours and hours. Why should you 
object if I find other companionships and interests, 
or if I gather people here — people that I like ? 

He. I dislike hearing them, seeing them, knowing 
they are about the place. Besides, why should you 
want to drag me in among them ? 

She. [Her face lighting up] Because they might 
suggest things to your thoughts, you would hear 

what the world wants 

[Enter Servant with a letter, which he gives to 
Blanche. 

Servant. His lordship will send for an answer in 
half an hour. [Exit Servant. 

She. [Pleased and excited as she reads the letter] It 
is from Lord Faringhurst; he talked of you this after- 
noon. He said it was wicked you should not be in 
harness, for you were so clever. Yes, he did, Bich-ard. 
Listen — " Will you and your husband lunch with me 
at the Garrick on Thursday ? You know that ladies 
are invited then ? " — Oh, but I should like that, 
wouldn't you ? 

He. [Disdainful.'] Faringhurst is a bore. I 
suppose he thinks you would like to look at the 
actors who belong to the Garrick. 

She. I should. [Reads] " Then we can discuss the 
matter at which I hinted to-day. Curiously enough 



A WOMAxM ALONE 2B 

I have just heard that there is likely to be a bye- 
election in my part of the world. Perhaps — [hesitates] 
if we could — induce him to stand " 

He. Then you have already been laying out my 
life for me ? 

She. [Astonished.] Why, no, Richard — he likes 
you so much, and think how splendid it would be if 
you had not even to wait for a General Election. 

He. I'm not likely to be concerned in a General 
or any other election, so there is no necessity for our 
lunching at the Garrick. 

She. Oh, but 

He. You can write him a note at once 

She. But I should like it so much — I mean to 
lunch. 

He. I should not. Stay, I will write myself. 
[Goes to table at side and ivrites a note while she looks 
at him dismayed. He folds it up, then unfolds it and 
reads] : " Dear Faringhurst, — It is very good of you 
and my wife to interest yourselves in my welfare, but 
I have no intention of disturbing the peace of any 
constituency at present. I regret we shall be unable 
to lunch with you on Thursday." [Rings. 

[Enter Servant. 

Give this to Lord Faringhurst's messenger when he 
comes. 

[Exit Servant with note. 

She. [Clasping her hands.] Oh, it is dreadful — you 
will not live yourself and you will not let me live. 
And human beings are meant to do things, that 



24 A WOMAN ALONE 

is why they count before all other creatures. They 
are not meant to eat and drink and sleep and do 
nothing — the world is tired of those, it has no use for 
them any more, and I did not mean to marry anyone 
of that sort. 

He. Thank you. I think it would be a good 
thing if I went away for a time — alone; then you 
could have your makers of history and all the wind- 
bags here as much as you pleased — till I returned. . . . 
While I was away you might learn what I expected 
from you 

She. [Getting angry.'] You tell me a great deal about 
what you expect — you do not think that I should 
expect anything. ... In Vienna I led a wonderful 
life — a woman's life, but it was full of interests and 
excitements that were not useless. If all women had 
useful interests — yes, and men too — men too, Richard, 
the world would be better, and there would not be 
so much time for things that are wicked or stupid 
or unkind. The mascot key of the world is work. 

He. Oh ! — [Impatiently turns away.] I was always 
afraid of marriage — we rushed into it — it is evidently 
a mistake. 

She. It is — it is a mistake — if this is it ! [Pas- 
sionately.] lam miserable — it was glorious to be free, 
but I didn't know it. 

He. Good. It was glorious to be free. I have 
felt that too. Perhaps we had better both be free 
again for a time. 

She. If you want life alone, actually, as well as in 



A WOMAN ALONE 25 

thought, I will go. [Pause. She has gradually worked 
herself up into a state of suppressed but intense excite- 
ment.] I will go back to Austria — there I was happy 
— I shall go back. 

He. No, you will not . . . you will stay here. 

She. Why should I stay if I want to go ? 

He. Because it is my pleasure. 

She. [Quickly.] You will make me hate you. [He 
gives a shrug.] You do not believe it, because I have 
loved you so — but I can do it — I can hate too — love and 
hate are very near together, as near as a man and a 
woman 

He. As near as a man and a woman — who are 
better apart. 

She. That is so. 

He. Better — far better apart. 

[With a little haughty bow she sits down. Re 
goes slowly out of the room. The door is 
left open. Pause. She looks up, pokes 
fire. 

She. [To herself] Afire — in July! [Shivers. Then 
in a low voice.] Oh, I wonder — I wonder ! 

[Enter softly the Countess Augusta. She is 
in outdoor dress, hat, etc. 

Augusta. [Gaily.] What is it you wonder, my 
Blanche ? 

Blanche. [Rises to her feet.] Augusta ! I did not 
hear you 

Augusta. And I have only come for a moment — 



§6 A WOMAN ALONE 

we are going to-night instead of to-morrow — to say 
Good-bye, for we start at 8 o'clock. But what is it 
you wonder? [Sits. 

Blanche. Augusta, I wonder why I married. 
Only I know why I did . . . but I was free, un- 
shackled, ready to work for my country if the chance 
came, I could go where I pleased, and when I liked, 
I was free I 

Augusta. Ah ! they talk so much about freedom 
— but it is not good, too much of it, for us women, 
my Blanche. And you are very happy now, for 
you love. 

Blanche. [In a toneless voice.] Love is not all. 

Augusta. Not to a man — but to a woman, yes. 
Shall I tell you what is the matter ? You are clever ; 
and it is not good for you. The dear Count says 
that being clever spoils a woman's natural pleasures 
and gives her a man's disappointments without the 
strength to meet them. 

Blanche. [Amused.'] You are a poor comforter, 
Augusta. Did he say it of me ? 

Augusta. Oh no, only to console me ; for I am not 
clever, I am stupid ! . . . He said you had a wonderful 
head, but 

Blanche, Yes, go on ? 

Augusta. But that no woman ever had a wonderful 
head who did not pay for it some time with her heart. 

Blanche. [With a little laugh.] You are a very poor 
comforter, Augusta. 

curtain 



ACT II 

Time : Two years later. Noon on an August day. 

Scene : The hall of the Kaiserhof at Innsbruck, large, 
well furnished, basket chairs, rugs, etc. ; news- 
papers on tables, etc. Down stage, l.c., a small 
table and chairs so arranged that two people can 
sit and talk. At back, c, facing stage, a side-door, 
or wide window; it should be open, showing 
snow-topped mountains and beautiful scenery be- 
yond. At back, r., is the Bureau of the hotel, 
farther down stage the open front door of the hotel, 
which should be double and important. On L. up 
stage is the staircase, and farther down, but not too 
near the footlights, a door leading to the dining- 
room. 

Henry Langton stands looking at a newspaper. He 
puts it down, goes to window at back. An elderly 
man is sitting, l.c, reading a book. People pass 
in and out, etc. 

Enter by front door r., Jack and Millicent Percival, 
very hot and dusty and in high spirits. They have 
been cycling, and are dressed accordingly. 

27 



28 A WOMAN ALONE 

Millicent. Thank goodness, we are at Innsbruck. 
I should have died if we'd had to go another mile. 
[Hotel Servants, Hall Poeter, etc., come forward. 

Jack. [To them.] All right. Our machines are out- 
side. We don't want rooms — only going to stay a 
couple of hours ; a friend will meet us here directly. 
We'll lunch when she arrives. 

[Servants bow and go. 

[Henry Langton listens and cautiously looks round. 

Millicent. [Coming down stage.] I hope she won't 
be long. 

Jack. [Following her.] It was a pull, wasn't it? 

Millicent. It was. 

Jack. [Seeing Visitor.] How do you do ? We met 
at Beyreuth last month. 

Visitor. [Puts down book.] Of course. Did you 
cycle here ? 

Jack. Yes. 

Visitor. Rather warm for it ? 

Jack. Grilling! 

Millicent. [Gaily.] And the hills — and the dust 
— and the things that sting — and the things that 
buzz! 

Visitor. So I should imagine. Have you come 
far? 

Jack. Not to-day. We've been staying at Rosen- 
heim. 

Visitor. Have you come from there now ? 

Jack. Well, no — but since yesterday. Only from 



A WOMAN ALONE 29 

Jenbach this morning. Quite enough, I can tell you, 
in this blazing heat. 

Millicent. [To Jack.] We did tell her the hotel 
was the Kaiserhof ? 

Jack, Of course. . . . Good Lord, it is hot ! 

Visitor. Are you staying here some time? 

Jack. No. Going on to Silz almost directly. 

Visitor. What sort of a place is that ? 

Jack. I don't know — not been there yet, it's near 
Landeck — fi ve-and-twenty miles — and we've got to do 
it, that's all I know. 

Millicent. [Looking round.] How lovely it is. 

Jack. Not bad. 

Visitor. [Getting up.] Probably we shall meet at 
luncheon ; you won't go on without food ? 

Jack. Not if we know it. . . . Are there many 
English people here ? 

Visitor. Not many. That villa up there [pointing to 
a little white patch on the mountainside seen through the 
open door at back] is occupied by two Englishmen ; they 
usually come down about this time for their letters. 

Jack. [Looking up quickly.] Two Englishmen ? 

Visitor. They've been there some time, I'm told. 
. . . You ought to see the church before you go — 
Maximilian's Monument — it's only a few minutes off. 

Jack. Must try — too hot now. 

[Exit Visitor, leaving book on the table. 

Millicent, Oh — I am glad to rest. 

Jack. [Taking up book.] What has the old boy 
been reading ? — Political Life . . . Looks interesting. 



30 A WOMAN ALONE 

Millicent. It sounds rather deadly — I can't bear 
politics. 

Jack. Your sex is better without them, darling — 
far better. . . . Wonder who the deuce wrote this ? 

[Henby Langton comes towards them, 

Millicent. [Excited.'] Mr Langton ! 

Langton. [Drily.'] How do you do ? I recognised 
you directly ; my back evidently had not the same 
effect on you. 

Jack. What an extraordinary thing to find you 
here. Where is Richard — is he with you ? 

Langton. Yes, he's up there — we're the two 
Englishmen who have the villa. [Nodding towards it.] 
How do you come to be here ? 

Jack. Been to Bayreuth. 

Langton. Oh. . . . Seen anything of Mrs. Bowden 
lately ? 

Jack. Saw her yesterday — by a fluke — she has 
been to Vienna — is on her way back to England ; we 
agreed to meet here, at this hotel, and lunch. She's 
driving from Jenbach. 

Langton. This is interesting. 

Jack. I always expected that Austria would draw 
them both. 

Millicent. She wanted to come to her own country 
again, of course ; but why should he come ? 

Jack. Because it is her country, and he met her 
first in it. 

Langton, Not at all — he always liked Innsbruck. 



A WOMAN ALONE 31 

He came to it several times before he met her — to 
his own disaster. 

Jack. And hers too. 

Langton. He's a good chap. 

Millicent. Yes — but he's an iceberg. 

Langton. An iceberg with a heart. 

Millicent. If the heart is in the middle of the 
iceberg it isn't any good — for — for 

Jack. For human purposes. 

Langton. Human purposes are often a nuisance. 
Are you intimate with her now, travelling together, 
or what ? 

Jack. Intimate ! No one is intimate with her any 
more than with him. It's quite simple — she has been 
to Vienna, and we have been to Bayreuth. We saw 
her before we left London ; she said she might be 
here about this date, so we determined to strike it — 
by great good luck we ran against her yesterday at 
Jenbach, where she had stopped to see a friend. We 
are going on to Silz and Landeck after we've fed and 
rested, and she is taking the train — somewhere ; she 
didn't tell us where. 

Langton. Not communicative ? They are a curious 
pair. . . . Well, she stands a sporting chance of 
running against Richard. He'll be here directly. 

Millicent. Ob ! what will happen ? [With a little 
burst.] Mr. Langton, why did her husband desert her 
in that cruel manner? It's two years since he 
went. 

Langton, [Drily.] I wasn't aware that he deserted 



32 A WOMAN ALONE 

her except at her own wish. Has she complained 
much? 

Millicent. She hasn't complained at all — she's too 
proud even to speak of it. 

Langton. Then you don't know the circumstances ? 

Millicent. All we know is, that very soon after 
the day when we met you there — you were sitting 
over the fire, do you remember ? 

Langton. Perfectly. 

Millicent. I believe they had a quarrel that day. 
I am certain they did — and soon afterwards he went 
away and has not been seen since. . . . Her cousin 
Countess Augusta came again and stayed for nearly a 
month. She was so fat. 

Langton. Dear woman — I could love her. What 
do people say about Richard ? 

Millicent. No one says much about him — of 
course they daren't say anything to her. 

Langton. They went their separate ways without 
any scandal — they've done it most decently. 

Millicent. I wonder if she even dreams that he 
may be here. I'm quite certain she didn't know 
where he was a month ago. 

Langton. She could write to his bankers. . . . 
You probably heard that last year the fanatical uncle 
in Vienna left her a considerable fortune ? 

Millicent. I knew he died, we saw it in the 
papers ; but she never tells one anything. 
Langton. [Grimly.] They are well matched. 
Millicent. And is he never going back to England ? 



A WOMAN ALONE 33 

Langton. Why should he ? He has no home there 
now. 

Millicent. The one in Green Street. 

Langton. It is not his any longer. She inquired 
through an agent if he would sell it, and bought it 
with Zipernowsky's money. There's nothing to take 
him back. 

Millicent. And are they always to be separated ? 

Langton. I don't know — I never asked him. 

Millicent. Nor we her 

Langton. [With a softer tone in his voice.] I'm 
sorry for Richard. He's the only relation I don't 
loathe — he came out to me in Italy — disappeared — 
turned up again — we came here, to the villa. ... I 
don't believe they would ever get on together. 

Jack. He loved her from the moment he first saw 
her. 

Langton. Now did he ? 

Jack. I'll swear he did. I shall never forget that 
night. I met him close to the Hof burg Theatre ; he 
was going in to see a poetic drama by some wild 
Hungarian, whose portrait had afflicted the papers 
for a month past. I told him he'd better go to old 
Zipernowsky's. He scoffed, then suddenly chucked 
the play and went with me. She was standing at the 
top of the big staircase — at the door of the salon — it 
was huDg with ragged tapestry, and rusty arms ; I 
saw them look at each other — it was like a flash of 
mystified recognition, the whole thing seemed to be 

inevitable 

c 



34 A WOMAN ALONE 

Millicent. It proves that they were born to love 
each other. And, if they met, and were alone, they 
might make it up and be happy. Let them have the 
chance. 

Langton. I'm afraid the chance would soon be 
over. 

Millicent. I would give the world to see things 
come right. 

Langton. [Looking at her with a vague surprise.] 
You seem to be extraordinarily fond of her ? 

Millicent. We both are. Yet she's always rather 
distant — that little stately manner which she cant 
get past. But yesterday — -you know what she did 
yesterday, Jack ? 

Langton. What did she do ? 

Millicent. We met her at Jenbach in a curiosity 
shop. She invited us to tea and walked back with 
us to our little inn. I said, "yes" or "no, Mrs. 
Bowden," of course; and suddenly she said, " I wish 
you would call me Blanche." I could have knelt on 
the roadway and kissed her hands. 

Langton. Probably a dusty road, a good thing you 
didn't. 

Millicent. There you are again. [Laughing. 

Jack. You know, it's a curious thing, the tragedy 
of these two people, for there's nothing — nothing of 
the usual sort— in it. 

Langton, Hope on — it may arrive ; while man is 
man, and woman is woman, there's always a chance 
for the divorce court in the background. [Pause. 



A WOMAN ALONE 35 

Millicent. You haven't asked anything about us, 
Mr, Langton. I wonder if you know that we have a 
son? 

Langton. Really — a son ! How old is he ? 

Millicent. Just a year — he's splendid. 

Langton. Of course, they always are — what will 
you do with him ? 

Millicent. Do with him ? 

Langton. Not decided on his profession yet ? 

Jack. At present he counts as Chancellor of the 
Exchequer in the house — his taxes are fearful. 

Millicent. But we don't mind a bit. 

[Enter Porter with a telegram. 

Porter. [To Jack.] Percival — is that your name ? 

Jack. Yes — but for me, a telegram ! 

Porter. For you. [Exit 

Jack. [Tearing it open.] It's from Mrs. Bowden. 
[Reads aloud.] " Please don't wait. Am meeting 
Richard at Innsbruck ; would rather you not there." 

Jack. Good Lord, what an extraordinary thing. 

Millicent. They're going to make it up ! 

Langton. I'm astounded — he hasn't said a word of 
this 

Jack. [To Millicent]. We'd better go at once, she 
evidently wants us out of the way. 

Millicent. Of course she does — but I'm so fright- 
fully hungry. 

Jack. [Hurrying her>] Never mind, we're sure to 
pass some place where we can get food, Come along 



36 A WOMAN ALONE 

— *>ur machines are outside, [To Langton.] She 
ought to be here now. 

Langton. [ Who has not recovered from his surprise 
at the telegram^ Yes — scuttle. If there is anything 
Richard dislikes it's observation. 

Jack. [To Millicent ] Scuttle is the word. Come. 
Millicent. [Looking back.] Do what you can, Mr. 
Langton. 

Langton. [After a moment's thought.] I will. But 
I shall serve them best by bolting too. [Looking out 
at doorway.] I see the postman coming along the 
road, T'll wait for the letters — he usually leaves them 
here for us. . . . Good-bye. 

[The Percivals go hurriedly by front door. 
Langton takes up book Visitor had left, 
turns over the leaves with a significant 
smile. Enter Visitor. 
Langton. Oh ! — you are looking for this ? 

[Gives him book. 
Visitor. Thank you. An excellent work, have 
you read it ? 

Langton. Yes, some time ago. Excellent, as you 
say. 

[Postman enters. Goes up to Bureau. A bell 
rings. 
Visitor. And there is the luncheon bell. 

[Visitor gets his letters and exit. 
Langton. [At bureau.] Are there any for us ? 

[Ls looking through letters handed to him when 
Richard Bowden enters. 



A WOMAN ALONE 37 

Langton. Hullo ! I'm just going — no letters for 
you. 

Richard. I met the postman on the way, he gave 
me mine. 

[Pulls a packet from his side pocket. 

Langton. [About to go.] You'll be back presently? 

Richard. Wait a moment, I want you. 

Langton. [Coming down stage.] You'll be surprised 
to hear that a belated idiot staying at this hotel has 
got your book. He has just told me it's an excellent 
work. Why don't you let the world know and 
applaud you ? 

Richard. [Shortly.] I would rather not. In 
another year or two I shall probably take to active 
politics. 

Langton. If they are not too corrupt by then. . . . 
I must hurry back . . . important letters to write 
before post time. 

Richard. Look here. [Opens a letter in his hand, 
pulls out some printed leaflets, etc.] I wrote to Cook's 
people lately. I think of going round the world. 
They've sent me particulars. 

[Puts them down on side table. 

Langton. Lord! 

Richard. But my plans may be suddenly changed, 
at least 

Langton. Changed? 

Richard. Just now a telegram was brought up 
to the villa — from Blanche. She is coming here to 
meet me. 



38 A WOMAN ALONE 

Langton. I know — the Percivals turned up just 
now. 

Richard. [Surprised.] The Percivals ? 

Langton. [Nodding.] Cycling. She was to have 
met them here and lunched, but she telegraphed that 
she was meeting you and told them to get out of the 
way — so they've gone on. 

Richard. Oh ! [Pleased but anxious, then abruptly.] 
How were they ? 

Langton. Just the same — evidently billing and 
cooing still. [Richard wrinkles his brow.] They have 
a son. 

Richard. [Gravely, as if he envied them.] A son — 
by Jove, a son. [Pause. 

Langton. I thought Blanche didn't know you 
were here ? 

Richard. She explains that in some visitors' list 
she saw my name and address, and asks me to meet 
her at one o'clock at this hotel. She is driving to 
Silz. 

Langton. Oh .'—I'll bolt. [Hesitates.] We shall 
hear her arrive. I shall have time before she comes 
in. [Looks at door l.] She probably means to try and 
straighten things out — if you want to bring her to 
the villa and honeymoon, I'll go to Zell-am-See. 

Richard. [As if against his will.] I wish it would 
turn out so. 

Langton. [Astonished.] Look here, we have never 
discussed her — hardly spoken of her. Forgive me 
for speaking now, but this thing ought to be set 



A WOMAN ALONE 39 

right — you are as obstinate as you can stick — but it's 
probably playing the devil with both your lives. 

Richard. [Between his teeth,] It is with mine, I 
know that. 

Langton. You may be certain it is with hers, the 
woman always comes off worst. I know she hit you 

hard in the first instance 

Richard. I never cared for any other woman — 
never shall. 

Langton. All the same, you were not quite fair to 

ner> [They have sat down. 

Richard. [Sharply.] How wasn't I fair ? 

Langton. Well, you see, you only thought of your 

point of view, it didn't occur to you that she might 

have one. 

Richard. Women should take their point of view 
from their husbands. 

Langton. My dear chap, that's rot ; education has 
played the devil with women, just as it has with the 
working classes — opened their eyes to their own 
capacities, given them the tip to cultivate them, and 

made them clamour 

Richard. For things they'd be better without. 
Langton. That isn't the question. They've got to 
have them, to a certain extent — not all they want. 
I wouldn't give them the vote — see 'em damned 
fi rs t — but they expect to have a decent time now — 
and they mean to have it. They've grown more in- 
telligent and they want a share, and a voice too, in 
the affairs of the world. Personally— to thrust my 



40 A WOMAN ALONE 

opinion on you again — I think they should only have 
it from their own homes and on matters that concern 
them. 

Richard. [Impatiently.] Well, I don't object to 
that. 

Langton. But you expected Blanche to settle 
down with only your blessed society — when you 
chose to give it her — and you were never very 
genial — to wait on your moods and tempers; but 
never to have hers taken into account. I'm very fond 
of you, but I think you'd be the deuce for an ordinary 
woman to live with 

Richard. She's not an ordinary woman. 

Langton, Which made it worse. . . . You won't 
recognise it because — I'm sorry to repeat it — you're 
as obstinate as the devil, but the relations of men and 
women are undergoing a readjustment, and if they 
only take it sensibly, each side will get more out 
of the other. When we've progressed a little further 
we shall hang any man who kicks his wife downstairs, 
and strangle any woman who gets drunk, but in spite 
of it, or because of it, we shall have more toleration 
between the sexes and get on a good deal better. 

Richard. I don't want to listen to a dissertation 
on the relations of men and women — I wish you'd 
go back. 

Langton. I'm going. But remember, if you want 
to turn me out and bring her there, I'll go — off like 
a rocket on a November night. It's what would 
happen if you really cared about her. 



A WOMAN ALONE 41 

Richard. Cared about her [almost fiercely, but 

as if against his will] I love her more than my life. 
She has never been out of my thoughts — she's the 
background of everything. 

Langton. [With feeling.] You'd better put her in 
the foreground again. [Just touches Richard's hand.] 

Richard. I wish to God she would come there. 

Langton. She will — depend upon it, if you manage 
her properly. [Looks round.] I should order a sitting 
room — tell them to stick some flowers about — and 
have her shown up to it when she comes — you can't 
do much in this setting. 

Richard. [Looking up with a little smile.] I'd 
better see how the land lies first — she's an imperious 
lady. 

Langton. If she isn't subdued 

Richard. I did it once. 

Langton. Do it again. 

Richard. She was the most splendid creature in 
the world when I first met her 

Langton. She was — when you brought her to 
England. 

Richard. You should have seen her as I saw her 
first, standing at the entrance of the great salon in 
the Zipernowsky palace. There was a light in her 
eyes that seemed to claim me — — 

Langton. I've heard something of this before, it 

must be true I expect all this estrangement 

has been a madness. 

Richard. Or the marriage was one. [Looks at his 



42 A WOMAN ALONE 

watch.] She ought to be here — Jenbach isn't very 
far. 

Langton. I believe she's a nice woman — humour 
her a bit — get her back and don't be a fool. After all 
she only wanted a fling. 

Richard. She shall have a fling if we set matters 
right — as big a fling as she pleases. ... I couldn't 
have stood any other woman for a week. 

Langton. You're in an excellent frame of mind, 
my dear chap. I shall go and look for my empty 
portmanteau. . . . [Listens.] She's there, I heard 
something stop. Good luck. 

[Exit hurriedly. 

[Richard draws hack watching the door r. 

Arrival hell rings. Hotel servants appear, 

a couple of trunks are carried in. Richard 

goes forward. Sir Horace Taylor enters. 

Sir Horace. [Astonished.] Hullo, Bowden, how do 

you do? Quite a surprise; haven't seen you for 

years — two years anyhow. 

Richard. [Taken aback for a moment.] How do 
you do? 

Sir Horace. "We passed your wife — she's driving 
and we're motoring — you're waiting for her, of course? 
Richard. Yes. 

Sir Horace. Staying in this hotel ? 
Richard. No. 

Sir Horace. We've been to Bayreuth — went by 
Munich, going home by this route. [To Hotel 
Servant.] You reserved our rooms? I telegraphed. 



A WOMAN ALONE 43 

Lady Taylor and my son will be here to-morrow ; I 
came on in front of them. [To Richard.] They wanted 
to see Salzburg on their way here, so they're staying 
behind for a day or two ; I'm going to send back the 
motor for them. [To Porter carrying bag, etc.] I'll 
follow yon. Stay— is lunch going on ? 
Servant. Yes, sir. 

Sir Horace. Well, take up my things, I'll go in and 
eat— I'm famished. [Goes towards dining-room. Looks 
hack and says] I expect you'll wait for your wife? 
Richard. [ Who has taken up paper] Yes. 

[Exit Sir Horace. Richard alone. Business. 

Arrival bell rings. A carriage is heard 

stopping. He comes down stage and stands 

watching door R. Servants go forward, etc. 

Blanche. [Voice heard without] In half an hour I 

shall continue my journey ; I shall not be longer. 

You can wait there. No, no luggage is to be brought 

in. Is Mr. Bowden here? 

Servant. Yes, madame. 

[Blanche Is dressed in travel clothes. All 

through the interview her manner is 

imperious and cold ; her voice is sometimes 

passionate and scornful, but there is no 

anger or ill-feeling in it. Against his will, 

Richard evidently feels her fascination. 

He goes toivards her as she enters. 

Blanche. [Meeting him about centre and slightly 

touching the hand he holds out. To Hotel Porter.] That 

will do. [Waves him aivay. Then to Richabd.] I was 



44 A WOMAN ALONE 

surprised to come across your name in that list — 
which I saw only by accident. You have a villa here ? 

He. That villa up on the mountain. 

[She follows direction of his eyes, then turns 
away quickly. 

She. Are you there alone ? 

He. A friend is staying with me. 

She. Ah ! a friend. 

[Looks round as if deciding where to sit. 

He. We can't talk here very well. I was about to 
ask for a salon when you arrived. 

She. [Firmly.] Oh no, this will do quite well. I 
prefer it. There is not much to say. ... I did not 
expect you would come to Innsbruck any more. 

[Site down by table c. 

He. I have always liked Austria, and Innsbruck is 
one of my oldest haunts. Why should I avoid it now ? 

She. [With a shrug.] Ah, why ? [Signs to him to sit. 

He. You have been in Vienna ? 

She. In Vienna — to see my relations and to look 
after my property. The Zipernowsky palace is sold. 
[In a half-pathetic voice, and as if inadvertently.] 
They are going to pull it down and build municipal 
buildings on its site. It is a tragedy. 

He. I agree — a tragedy. And now 

She. I am on my way back to London. And you? 

He. [Frozen by her manner.] At present my plans 
are indefinite. 

She. You are not coming to England ? 

He. I have no longer a home there. 



A WOMAN ALONE 45 

She. [ With a little formal surprise.] Oh ? 

He. You were good enough to buy it. 

She. Naturally — since you did not stay there I did 
not choose to live in your house any more. Till it 
was my own I felt that you were giving me your 
charity 

He. [Staring at her.] My charity ? 

She. This is why I wished to see you — why I 
telegraphed. I felt that we must have an explana- 
tion. Every quarter your banker sends me money. 
I wrote to him, it was useless. To your lawyer, it 
was useless also. I did not know your address till I 
saw it in that list. Every quarter that money is paid 
into my account. It is an insult, and I will not have it. 

He. And it was to make this statement that you 
desired to meet me ? 

She. Yes, since to say it elsewhere has been useless. 

He. It is usual for a man to support the woman he 
has married. 

She. [Cold and courteous.] But we are not together 
any more — we have separated — there are no children 
— there is no tie between us, except a legal one, which 

is only [A shrug.] ... I want nothing from you 

— I will take nothing. I have sufficient money — I 
had enough before my uncle died — now I have more 
than enough. 

He. And you are content with the life you are 
living, in your own house, spending your own money ? 

She [with a smile.] Quite content — it is all I 
want. 



46 A WOMAN ALONE 

He. All? 

She. [Cold and firm.] All. 

He. You were not satisfied with the life I gave you. 

She. You did not give me any — after the first 
months. [A little break in her voice.] You only gave 
me food and shelter, and money if I wanted it. If 
you lived any life yourself that was worth calling one 
— I do not know. You gave me nothing but what I 
have said, and you disliked that I should make a life 
for myself — or we might each have been satisfied. 

He. And my love ? 

She. Oh ! it was such a poor thing ; it was 
reckoned such a long way after your consideration 
for yourself — that I prefer not to discuss it. Any 
love I had for you is over and finished. I prefer 
also not to discuss that ... I can never forgive 
your leaving me as you did. 

He. We were neither of us satisfied, we were not 
happy together. I did the best thing for both of us. 
You like the life you have now 

She [triumphantly, yet half sadly.] Yes ! I know 
how the world is moving, what it is doing ; I have 
power and place — 

He. Power and place ! 

She. The manner of life that satisfied me in 
Vienna before you came — I loved it. . . . I have 
loved it again since you went. 

He. [Politely.] Obviously there is nothing more to 
be said. 

She. [With a queer litth laugh.] It has all been so 



A WOMAN ALONE 47 

absurd— it began because I gathered people round me. 
I was ambitious for you— for you, who had done 
nothing in the world since you went on the 
diplomatic mission to Petersburg when you were 
twenty-five or twenty-six— twelve years before we 

met for twelve years you had done nothing. . . . 

Naturally I did not want that to continue ; and for 
myself, I could not be content with the life of the 
average woman of thirty years ago. 

He. [Impatiently.] It was better than the restless- 
ness of the women of to-day— which is the result of 
men being too generous. 

She. Generous !— how have they been generous ? 
He. They have opened too many doors to 
women. 

She. Oh yes, they have opened doors — because 
women were beating against the bars— but they 
dislike seeing them go through— they grudge it, 
sometimes they hate it. We will not discuss that or 
we shall come to the Suffrage, and I am not a 
Suffragette— though I understand now the atmo- 
sphere that evolved them. ... It is tradition that 
has hampered you — the traditions of years and years 
ago concerning women. 

He. They were more than traditions, I have my 
convictions. 

She. Oh yes, you have your convictions. And we 
parted, and you went away to nourish them. 
He. I repeat — it was wise. 
She. It was wise, no doubt, [With a little forced 



48 A WOMAN ALONE 

laugh.] I am glad you went, for I do not love you any 
more. 

He. [Calmly and gravely.] You are very certain 
of your own point of view. It hasn't occurred to you 
that there is any other worth considering, that a man 
may possibly want to think and dream in peace — if 
he can afford the luxury of time — that he may want 
to be sure of himself before he attempts anything 
worth the doing. [Pause.] As for women, there is an 
army of women workers to-day for whom all men, 
who think and know about things, have admiration 
and respect. But there are other women, especially 
women in what we are pleased to call Society who 
seem to think that the world is carried on by silly 
committees and tea-parties, hurrying here and there, 
chattering and worrying, and never calmly possessing 
their own souls till they die — and then, God knows 
what becomes of them. 

She. [Taken aback.] At silly committees and tea- 
parties many ropes are pulled that help the crowd 
waiting beneath — the people who cannot make their 
own voices heard. . . . Now I have said what I came 
to say, and I am going. [She bows and avoids shaking 
hands, rises, gathers up her gloves.] 

He. [Astounded at the whole interview.] You are 
going ! It was to say this that you came here — for 
no other reason ? 

She. Oh yes, I am going. I came for no other 
reason. [She is about to go when the tone of his voice 
arrests her ; te leans a little forward as he speaks,] 






A WOMAN ALONE 49 

He. You wish to be free, perhaps — free to marry 
elsewhere ? 

She. [Quickly.] No, I do not wish to marry else- 
where — I have all the freedom I want. . . . But 
you, do you wish it ? 

He. No. . . . But you are young . . . beautiful. 
[She shrugs.] You could marry more happily ? 

She. I have said . . . but — again — it is for your- 
self you speak? . . . you wish — [He shakes his 
head] not to make other ties ? 

He. No. I prefer the hard and fast boundary 
our — what was once our — marriage sets up. 

She. But you have a friend at the villa ? 

He. The friend is my cousin, Henry Langton. 

She. Ah yes. That prevents you from being 
lonely — though you always liked being alone. 

He. As you do ? 

She. [Wearily.] Yes, as I do. [To a Porter, who 
crosses the stage at the back,] Would you see if the 
carriage is there? [Looks round.] It is very 
beautiful here — this place, I mean. I like to think 
it is a bit of my country. . . . [Then to Richard.] 
I hope the villa is pleasant; it looks so charm- 
ing from here. [She bows, turns away from him 
and goes towards the door by which she had entered. 
Then in avoice that is cold and yet full of sup- 
pressed feeling.] I wish you a great deal of hap- 
piness. [He bows. Hotel servants come from the 
background. To them.] The carriage is there? I 
am going 

D 



50 A WOMAN ALONE 

Servant. [Surprised.] You go already, madame, 
you require nothing ? 

Blanche. I require nothing — but to go. 
Richard. [Who has followed her two or three steps.] 
Let me see you to your carriage ? 

Blanche. [In a voice that is for a moment un- 
steady.] Please not. [Firmly.] I would rather that 
you do not. [She turns to go. 

[Re boivs and turns away, goes towards table 
at the side to take up letters and circulars 
about going round the world. 
[She looks at him for one moment, hesitates, 
which he does not see, then with a quick 
step goes out. 
[The carriage is heard going off". Richard 
stands listening, then sits, puts his head in 
his hands for a moment, rises abruptly, 
exit. 



ACT 111 

Time : Two more years have elapsed. Afternoon. 
Scene: Blanche's drawing-room in Green Street. 
There is afire in the grate. In front of it she is 
sitting in a high-hacked armchair. Her hands are 
crossed on her lap and she gives an impression 
of loneliness. She looks a little older and graver. 
Some of the Visitors look older, talk together, 
and are less attracted by her than in Act I. A 
long pause. Clock on the mantelshelf strikes ; 
it seems to startle her; she looks up, and 
round the room, then relapses into reverie 
again. 
Enter Servant announcing "Mrs. Percival." 
Millicent brings some roses, puts them on 
Blanche's lap.] 
Blanche. [Pleased.] Ah, I'm glad when you come. 
[Takes up roses.] How sweet of you. 

Millicent. I'm always glad to come. But, dear 
Blanche, a fire ? 

Blanche. I know — I was very cold. 
Millicent. But it's so warm, almost summer. 
Blanche. [With a little shiver.] Is it? 
51 



52 A WOMAN ALONE 

Millicent. I came early; I thought we might get 
a little talk before anyone arrived. [They sit. 

Blanche. Oh yes, it's Saturday. [Bending towards 
the fire.] It's Saturday every week . . . [Change of 
tone.] How is your little son ? 

Millicent. He's lovely — You haven't seen him for 
nearly two months. 

Blanche. [Kindly.] No — but I should like to see 
him 

Millicent. He runs about everywhere. [Lifts her 
head as if listening to him overhead.] I love to hear 
him patter, patter across the nursery floor. 

Blanche. [Wistfully.] You must love it — patter, 
patter across the nursery floor 

Millicent. [Half afraid.] If you only had a 
child 

Blanche. [Little sound of dismay and longing but 
very distant.] A child! [Absently puts her arms 
together. Then abruptly] It's nearly five o'clock. 

Millicent. [To cover her mistake.] And time for 
your visitors. 

Blanche. [With a shrug.] If any come. They are 
dwindling away and they're not so exalted as formerly; 
they have been coming for five years — four years 
to me alone. . . . [Cynically.] The new people don't 
struggle to come any more. 

Millicent. Don't they ? 

Blanche. No. Only some one who is brought once 
— just once. It is part of his equipment for the 
world. ... In his middle age he will be able to say : 



A WOMAN ALONE 53 

" Oh yes ; I went to her salon when I was young." 
That's all. [A little laugh and recovering.] But I don't 
want them — there is a terrible sameness about them. 
Each one is intent on his own set of interests. They 
seem to enter with their packs anxious to display 
their wares, and to go, like so many pedlars. I am 
tired of them. 

Millicent. But the original worshippers are faith- 
ful; there's Mr. Carstairs, for instance. He was 
reading to you the other day 

Blanche. [With a little laugh and a grimace.] Oh 
yes, I am sorry for him; that is why I Ksten to 
his poems. He thinks he is going to be immortal, 
but in the day when all good work comes by its own 
there will be no sign of anything he has done. [As if 
without intention.] If Richard had chosen to work — 
the chances would have leaped to him . . . 

Millicent. Is he never coming back ? 

Blanche. [Coldly.] He likes being abroad. 

Millicent. [Very gently.] Why don't you go to 
him? 

Blanche. I like being here. [With a change of 
mood.] It's a good thing to be alone, to live your own 
life and to be free. There has been so much nonsense 
talked about freedom, but in freedom and loneliness 
power is born — and some things are better than 
happiness. 

Millicent. My dearest Blanche, forgive me for 
saying it — but that is only high falutin' — with no 
comfort in it. I think a great deal of nonsense is 



54 A WOMAN ALONE 

talked about power too. We want happiness — it's 
the most difficult thing of all to get, and does every- 
one heaps of good. 

Blanche. [Amused.] Millicent, Millicent, you have 
been thinking. 

Millicent. No, it's Jack — somehow he always 
thinks the things that I am going to feel. [Pause. 

Blanche. [Trying not to show any eagerness.] Does 
Jack ever hear from llichard ? [Millicent shakes her 
head.] Or of him ? [Gets up, arranges roses.] 

Millicent. Sometimes he sees his name in 
print 

Blanche. That is how I knew he was at Innsbruck 
two years ago. I saw his name in print. 

Millicent. [Half afraid to ask.] Do you know 
where he is now ? 

Blanche. No, only that he went round the world 
. . . he may be back . . . I don't know , . . I think 
it's easier when he's far off. . . . [Fastening one 
rose at her waist] but I have been lonely sometimes. 

Millicent. You have kept every one at such a 
distance. 

Blanche. I know . . . I couldn't help it ; all these 
years I have felt as if I were in a little boat tossing 
on an uneasy sea — the ships passed and the passengers 
waved their handkerchiefs, but nobody could reach me. 
. . . Now the little boat is going over the horizon and 
out of sight. 

Millicent. What do you mean ? 

Blanche. I shall go away. [Stands holding out 



A WOMAN ALONE 55 

her hands to Millicent, but avoids their being taJcen.] 
It's impossible to bear it any longer — I cannot. I 
shall go back to my own country — to Vienna, or 
to Hungary; I want to see the great Hungarian 
plains once more, the infinite — infinite space. 

Millicent. But, Blanche dear, what will the 
worshippers do ? 

Blanche. There is that woman in Ebury Street, 
Mrs. Ferrers. She is young and pretty and happy. 
Everybody goes to her now. 

Millicent. I've heard of her, but I never went 
there, did you ? 

Blanche. No, and she never comes here. 

Millicent. [After hesitation.] I want to tell you 
something — perhaps you know already. But Jack 
heard it only lately — it has been kept a great secret — 

Blanche. A secret — about Richard ? 

Millicent. [Nods.] He wrote that book " Political 
Life " that made such a stir three years ago. [Blanche 
is speechless with surprise.] Isn't it queer, a visitor 
was reading it at Innsbruck when we were there, and 
Jack looked at it, but never dreamt it was his. 

Blanche. When we were at Innsbruck ? . . . I 
knew he could do things. He wrote it and never 
made a sign ! How he must despise me, who thought 
he would do nothing. It doesn't matter — he did it, 
he did it. [Looks up, her face is suffused with happi- 
ness.] If I'd only known at Innsbruck ! 

Millicent. We did so hope things would come right 
there. You said nothing when you came on to Silz ? 



56 A WOMAN ALONE 

Blanche. No. 

Millicent. We didn't dare ask what had happened 
— you seemed desperately anxious to get away from us. 

Blanche. Yes, I was desperately anxious to get 
away. 

[Enter Servant announcing " Mr. Carstairs." 

Blanche. [To Carstairs, trying to be polite.] How do 
you do ? 

Algy Carstairs. Dear lady, I venture here again — 
Mrs. Percival ? [Shakes hands. 

Millicent. How do you do? [To Blanche.] I must 
go, but you'll see me again soon. 

Blanche. [Eagerly.] Yes, soon — come back later to- 
day — I want you. 

Millicent. I will if I can. [Exit. 

Algy Carstairs. [Fervently.] I hoped you would be 
alone. 

Blanche. You want to discuss something ? 

Algy Carstairs. No . . . it is happiness to be with 
you — and alone. 

Blanche. We all measure happiness differently. 

Algy Carstairs. There is only one way for me. 

Blanche. Ah ! . . . Tell me, is there any news — 
political news — or news about books ? 

Algy Carstairs. I have not thought about news. 

Blanche. You have been too busy with your work ? 

Algy Carstairs. I can't work. 

Blanche. Perhaps you have written an epic and 
feel that you must rest after it ? 

Algy Carstairs. I have written nothing. I shall 



A WOMAN ALONE 57 

never write again — unless you help me. . : . You 

must listen to me, you must 

Blanche. [Haughtily^ There is nothing that I 
must do. 

Algy Carstairs. You know what I want to say — 
I love you, I love you. You are unhappy. I feel that 
your soul wrestles as mine does — that you need me. 
Blanche. I need you ! 

Algy Carstairs. You need my love, as I do yours. 
I worship you, and cannot live without you. 
Blanche. You are talking nonsense. 
Algy Carstairs. No — of life and death. 
Blanche. You are a poet, and life and death are 
easy words to you. Either you are talking nonsense, 
and I forgive you, or you are insulting, and I shall 
have you turned out. [Rings.] I am ringing for 
tea. [In answer to his alarmed look.] We must be 
soothed after this excitement. I shall forget your 
folly, and you will soon be ashamed of it. 

Algy Carstairs. Oh, dear lady, if you knew — if 

you could dream 

Blanche. I do not want to know or to dream. 

[Enter Servant announcing " Mr. Hesketh." 

Exit. But returns with tea, etc., and arranges it. 

Blanche. Here is the editor — most opportunely. 

How do you do, Mr. Hesketh? Mr. Carstairs is 

writing an epic — you shall publish it in your paper. 

Hesketh. Heaven forbid ! 

Blanche. Oh ! but it would be a great attraction. 
Hesketh. Most kind of you, my dear Mrs. Bowden, 



58 A WOMAN ALONE 

most kind of you — but a newspaper is for the vulgar; 
they have not yet learnt to appreciate epics. 

Algy Carstairs. [Trying to recover.] I must go 

Blanche. [Sitting at tea table.] Oh no ; you must 
have some tea, and be agreeable to Mr. Hesketh. He 
reviews epics even if he doesn't publish them. 

[Enter Sir Horace Taylor. 

Blanche. How is Sir Horace ? [Shakes hands.] 

Sir Horace. Quite well — and you ? [Nodding to 
Hesketh and Carstairs.] I congratulate you on 
your husband's book — every one knows it now, but 
you kept the secret well. I have not seen him since 
we met at Innsbruck. You remember ? 

Blanche. Oh yes ; I remember. 

[The others look at her surprised. 

Sir Horace. [Curiously.] Did you go to your villa 
on the mountain ? 

Blanche. [Distantly^ Richard liked that villa. 

Hesketh. I suppose he will be home soon ? It 
doesn't take long to get round the world nowadays. 

Blanche. Richard is a leisurely person. . . . 
Some tea ? 

Sir Horace. Thank you. . . . Mrs. Ferrers will 
be so interested to hear he wrote that book ; she 
was convinced it was some one else. 

Hesketh. I'm going on there presently. 

Sir Horace. So am I. 

Blanche. [With a little laugh.] Worshippers at the 
new shrine. There are two things that always hold 
tjieir own. Mystery — how fascinating it is ! Should 



A WOMAN ALONE 59 

we any of us be good if heaven were an explored 
country ? 

Sir Horace. Or wicked, if the other place were ? 
But what is the other thing ? 

Blanche. Firstness, newness — the first time — the 
new thing — it is wonderful. But when the firstness 
is over — the newness — then — it is different. 

Sir Horace. That's true ; especially of marriage. 
. . . [Turning to Hesketh.] By the way, I hear that 
Galton is going to get a divorce. 

Hesketh. That's rather amusing. 

Blanche. [Cynically.'] Is it? But such strange 
things are called amusing now. [Enter Widhurst.] 
Ah, Mr. Widhurst, what is the theatrical news? 
Have you got a new part ? 

Widhurst. [Sitting down and nodding to the others.] 
Not yet, Mrs. Bowden. Managers appear to be out 
all day and on the stage all night, and they never 
answer letters, so it's rather difficult to get at them. 

Algy Carstairs. It's worse for the author of a 
play. Parkinson — actor-manager and scoundrel — 
had one five months, a beautiful thing, purest tragedy 
in blank verse. 

Widhurst. Of course — blank. 

Algy Carstairs. [Frowns.] I know its qualities 
well, Widhurst. It would have done for your Theatre 
of Intellect — what became of that ? 

Widhurst. I couldn't get a theatre, and there 
wasn't any intellect — at least not where there was any 
money. 



60 A WOMAN ALONE 

Algy Caestairs. And the poet and the great 
dramatist — what are they to do ? 

Widhurst. [A shrug.] It's no good being that sort 
of person till you're dead, and then you don't do any- 
thing ; you belong to the largest leisured class in the 
world — or out of it. 

Algy Carstairs. [Sadly.] And the most beautiful 
— Immortality goes reaping among it. 

[Enter Bertram. 

Blanche. I hoped you would come. 

Bertram. [Aside to her.] I came to thank you. 

Blanche. It is settled ? 

Bertram. [Nodding.] I heard from the Chief last 

night Yes, some tea, if I may. This morning 

he sent for me. 

[Hesketh and Carstairs on one side standing 
together. 

Hesketh. [In a low tone.] It's extraordinary that 
Bowden should have written that book. 

Algy Carstairs. I can't believe it now — he has 
cleverness, of course, but no genius. 

Hesketh. [Looking at his watch.] The one is often 
fatal to the other. He is a very remarkable man. 

Algy Carstairs. He is an abstraction, and un- 
worthy of her. [Looking towards Blanche.] How 
beautiful she is, and full of poetry. 

Hesketh. She's not what she was a few years ago. 
I shall never forget her the year that Bowden took 
himself off. 



A WOMAN ALONE 61 

Algy Carstairs. [In an undertone.] I could die 
for her. 

Hesketh. Ah, a young man often feels that sort of 
thing about a woman a year or two older than himself. 

Blanche. [ Who is talking to Bertram.] I'm so glad 
my little hint was useful. 

Bertram. It did everything. Lord Faringhurst 
wrote first, and this morning I heard it was all right. 

Bertram. I can never thank you enough. 

Hesketh. [Overhearing.] Has Mrs. Bowden been 
putting in a word for you, Bertram ? 

Bertram. She is always doing good deeds. 

[Enter Mrs. Martin, elderly. 

Mrs. Martin. Dear Mrs. Bowden. Surrounded as 
usual 

Blanche. How do you do ? [Gets up.] Stay, do sit 
here, this chair is so comfortable. 

Mrs. Martin. [Mistaking the chair offered.] Oh, no, 
I couldn't sit there — it's your place. 

Blanche. Yes, yes [smiling] — and some tea ? Oh — 
it doesn't matter. 

[Mrs. Martin with a bland smile has 
floundered into Blanche's chair, who is 
thus left standing ; she looks amused. 

Blanche. [Introducing.] You know Sir Horace 
Taylor — Mrs. Martin. 

Mrs. Martin. So pleased to meet you, Sir Horace. 
[To Blanche, so that he hears.] Such a famous man. 
[Re is evidently disgusted.] There are always such 
interesting people here. [Mrs. Martin makes business 



62 A WOMAN ALONE 

with the tea-things; Widhurst hands her cake, etc. 
To Widhurst.] I feel sure you are a celebrity, too ? 

Widhurst. Oh no — I take a humble interest in the 
theatre — wish it returned the compliment* 

[Enter Servant with note, " From Mrs. Per- 
cival" for Blanche, who moves apart from 
her visitors, 
Blanche. [Beads.] " Mr. Bowden is in England — 
Jack heard it. He is going away immediately." 

[She gives a little cry and scrunches the note 
in her hand. 
Algy Carstairs. Mrs. Bowden, are you ill? 
Blanche. Oh, no; my head — that is all. It is 
nothing — I am tired perhaps. 

[Smooths out note and reads it again. 
Hesketh. I must be going. 

Sir Horace. So must I. Oh, I quite forgot to tell 
you a funny story. [Laughs.'] I met Grimshaw last 
night. Asked him when he was going to marry 
again ; said he didn't think he should — white women 
were so much alike he never could tell his own wife 
from another man's, and he didn't like black women. 

[Re and Hesketh laugh. 
Mrs. Martin. [Primly^] It's not a very pleasant 
story. 

Sir Horace. Awfully funny, you know. 
Algy Carstairs. I don't see any point in it. Do 
you, Mrs. Bowden ? 

Blanche. [Looking up.] I fear I wasn't listening ; 
it was very rude of me. 



A WOMAN ALONE 63 

Bertram. [ Sympathetically. ,] We ought to go away. 
Mrs. Bowden is tired. 

Blanche. Oh no. 

Hesketh. I must go. 

Sir Horace. And I'm due in Ebury Street. Good- 
bye, Mrs. Bowden — so glad about the book. 

Hesketh. I'll come with you. 

Sir Horace. Capital ! Come too, Carstairs ? Mrs. 
Ferrers delights in the rising poet. We'll introduce 
you. 

Sir Horace. [Aside to Hesketh, while Carstairs 
is bending over her hand.] She is getting almost dull; 
that story was thrown away upon her. 

Algy Carstairs. [Aside to Blanche.] Let me stay 
a little while. 

Blanche. [Bewildered.] No, I would rather you 
went. 

Algy Carstairs. [To Blanche.] You forgive me ? 

Blanche. Forgive ? Oh yes 

Hesketh. [To her.] Good-bye. We ought to have 
known sooner about that book. 

[Blanche shakes hands with him and with 
Sir Horace. They depart with Carstairs. 

Mrs. Martin. You were so kind to me the other 
day about the plot of my new novel, Mrs. Bowden. 
[Opens black bag, brings out MS.] 

Bertram [Aside to Widhurst.] Do let's get her 
away. Mrs. Bowden is very tired. 

Mrs. Martin. [Goes on.] I wanted to consult you 
on one more point. I make Philip marry the wrong 



64 A WOMAN ALONE 

woman — the dramatic side will interest Mr. Wid- 

hurst 

Blanche. I am too stupid to-day, I fear 



Widhurst. I wish you'd consult me, Mrs. Martin. 
I'm rather a dab at that sort of thing. My sister 
wrote a novel, so did my aunt. If you will let me 
drive you to North Kensington j you said you lived 
there the other day — charming neighbourhood — we 
might talk it over on the way. I know Mrs. Bowden 
has a headache, but my head's in particularly good 
condition. If you don't mind coming now 

Blanche. {Gratefully to Widhurst.] Oh 



Mrs. Martin. I shall be delighted. [Gets up. 

Blanche. Good-bye. I shall see the result in 
print. Mr. Widhurst is splendid — so clever. 

[They go, only Bertram is left. 

Blanche. [To Bertram.] That nice man took her 
away out of kindness. 

Bertram. It really was noble of him, [Hesitates.] 

I'm going too If I can be of any service to you 

at any time, do let me. I shall never forget all you 
have done for me. 

Blanche. When do you go to India ? 

Bertram. Next month. I shall often think of you 
— and write too, if I may, and tell you how the 
appointment works out. 

Blanche. Yes, do. [Exit Bertram. 

[Blanche alone ; sits by the fire again. 
Servant takes away tea. A pause. 



A WOMAN ALONE 65 

[Enter Millicent. Blanche gets up and 
waits, unable to speak. 

Millicent. I thought you might want me. 
Blanche. [As if afraid to ask.] Yes, I want you. 
Tell me all you know. 

Millicent. It is hardly anything. George Austin 
saw him two nights ago at Euston. He had just 
arrived from Japan or somewhere. He is leaving 
London again to-night. 

Blanche. But where is he ? 
Millicent. Brown's Hotel. 

Blanche. [Desperately.] Oh, if he would see me 
and take me back. I cannot bear it or pretend any 
longer. I want him back. 

Millicent. [Astonished.] Blanche ! Go to him. 
Blanche. I am afraid— I did— a month after 
Innsbruck, he was in London for two nights before 

he sailed 

Millicent. Yes? 

Blanche. He was like a stone to me. It is killing 
me— I deserve it ; for I was cruel, brutal, detestable 
at Innsbruck. 

Millicent. [Still astounded.] We thought you 
didn't care. You seemed to exult in your freedom. 

Blanche. I did for a little while. I wouldn't let 
myself think or feel— it was as if against my will— 
my underwill— I was carried over a tide ... but it 
has all been a disguise of my love for him, of my 
desperation. Why shouldn't I say it ? He is mine 



66 A WOMAN ALONE 

though he stays away all the days of his life — he is 
mine. 

Millicent. [Still wondering.] And all the time 
you have cared ? 

Blanche. [Distracted.] Cared ? For good or ill he 
has not been one instant out of my thoughts since 
we parted. Some hours have been calm — I buoyed 
myself up with a sham happiness — but it has seemed 
as if in some secret place — that was always near — 
there was a rack that mercilessly drew me to it for a 
little spell or a long one — just as might be — every 
day or night, sometimes one and sometimes the other 
— and bound me to it, and ground at my heart and 
soul, and every pulse that is in me . . . 

Millicent. Something must be done. 

Blanche. [As if she had not heard.] And he is 
there — not ten minutes off, yet I dare not go to him. 
He wouldn't even see me. I know it. 

Millicent. Let Jack go to him. They knew each 
other so well at one time. He is downstairs, he 
didn't like to come up. But let him go to Mr. 
Bowden. 

Blanche. It would be no good. He would talk 
about his convictions — he has built an altar to them 
and my happiness is the burnt sacrifice offered up 
upon it. 

Millicent. What did he say when you went to 
him — in London, I mean ? 

Blanche. [Bitterly, and as if in a dream.] He said 
that we had decided to live apart ; that I had not 



A WOMAN ALONE 67 

cared for the life he gave me, nor to live in his 
house, so he had left me to the life I liked in the 
house I had bought; that admiration and freedom 
were what I prized most, and now they were mine ; 
that I had said at Innsbruck my love for him was 
over and finished and everything between us was 
at an end — and it was true — it was at an end. 
His manner froze me, paralysed me — and I went. 
[Millicent tries to caress her, but she shakes her off.] 
... If I only knew how he lives and whether there 
is any other place he calls home. Or if he would come 
back for just a little while I might bear the separate 
ways again. I could bear reproaches, anger, any- 
thing but this silence and this empty house — this 
starving for sight and sound of him. 

Millicent. Do let Jack go to him. It can't make 
things worse — it might do some good. 

Blanche. I wonder — I wonder 

Millicent. Or write to him ? 

Blanche. [Hesitates — then suddenly.] Yes, yes, I'll 
write to him. And Jack shall take it. [Goes towards 
writing-table on the l well down stage. Turns to 
Millicent.] Go down, dear, and tell Jack — ask him 
if he'll go — I must be alone while I write. Come 
back in five minutes and bring him. [Millicent 
takes her hands, kisses them, and goes. Blanche, left 
alone, kneels or throws herself down on a chair — 
passionately repeats the words as she writes them.] 

" Richard, my Richard — come back. I am longing 
for you, dying for you. Come back. I send you this 



68 A WOMAN ALONE 

rose — [plucks it from her dress] — I have covered it 
with kisses — come to me, I cannot bear life without 
you. — Your own — yours and yours, Blanche." 

[Folds the letter, puts it for a moment against 
her face. Enter Jack and Millicent. 

Blanche. [Giving note to Jack.] Take it — bring 
him back 

Jack. [Taking note and rose.] I will, I swear I 
will. Let Millicent wait with you. Only a little while 
and I will bring him to you as I did the night he 
first saw you. 

Blanche. Oh ! — if you do — if you do ! 

Jack. I will, dear friend, I will. [Exit. 

Blanche. [With a shudder and looking towards the 
clock.] A few minutes — and I shall know my fate — 
shall be in Heaven, or for ever shut out from it. 

Enter Servant announcing " Mrs. Vynor." 

Mrs. Vynor [Evidently worried.] I came late on 
purpose. I hoped I might find you alone. 

Blanche. [Aghast at her coming.] Yes, I am alone, 
except for Mrs. Percival — but it is late — and 

Mrs. Vynor. [Hesitatingly.] I do so want to speak 
to you. 

Millicent. I'll go into the next room to write a 
note — if I may ? [Exit Millicent. 

Blanche. [Piteously.] I'm very tired to-day 

Mrs. Vynor. I will only stay a few minutes. You 
were so kind long ago when my little girl was ill — 
and when she died you made me feel the Majesty 



A WOMAN ALONE 69 

of Death . . . and so much I'd never thought of 
before. 

Blanche. Ah, poor thing, I remember about the 
child. But I don't remember being kind. 

Mrs. Yynor. Oh, but you were indeed ; and now I 
come again. I want you to help me 

Blanche. [Wonderingly.] To help you? How can 
I help you ? [The effort to be calm puts a wild look 
into her eyes.] 

Mrs. Yynor. I'm so unhappy about Geoffrey. This 
last year or two I have altered — I have read a great 
deal and been to meetings and I see things differently. 
Last week I spoke at a meeting and he hated it. He 
won't let me do the things I want to do. He 
doesn't understand that the world has changed — 
for women. 

Blanche. Oh yes, it has changed, but not in the way 
that many women think. What are you going to do ? 

Mrs. Yynor. He says he can't care for me if — if I 
do this sort of thing. I thought that perhaps you 
would advise me. If I were to separate from him 
and be free as you are ? Would people say things — 
would they think there had been anything wrong ? 

Blanche. [Scornfully.] People! What do they 
matter ? [ Walks across the room and stops before Mrs. 
Yynor.] Why did you marry your husband ? Because 
he was rich ? 

Mrs. Yynor. No. 

Blanche. Because you were tired of not being 
married ? 



70 A WOMAN ALONE 

Mrs. Vynor. No. Because I loved him — I love 
him still, but there are other things 

Blanche. [With a curiously defiant manner.] Oh 
yes, there are other things — but unless we have 
love — the love of those we love — the world is empty. 
"We are two women standing here alone, and it's better 
to face the truth ; men can do without love, can be 
happy or content, but women can't — it's no good pre- 
tending. They can't — can't — till they are old and 
burnt out, and then they are mourner sat a funeral. . . . 

Mrs. Vynor. [A little scared.] But women are doing 
so much nowadays one doesn't want to be out of it, 
and heaps of them are happy without love. 

Blanche. [Shakes her head.] No, they only act as if 
they were. They want human ties — close — close ties. 
They are taking makeshifts. . . . That is why I'm so 
sorryjfor them. . . . And if men had treated them differ- 
ently women wouldn't have clamoured for the vote — 
nor broken windows — life would have been full enough. 

Mrs. Yynor. [Blankly.] Men are cleverer and 
stronger than we are, I suppose ; that is why — 
why 

Blanche. [Calmer.] Oh yes, it is why — why many 
things ; but of two people one must be the stronger. 
And our weakness — the inward secret weakness of our 
hearts — puts us at their mercy. This — this is the real 
tragedy of our sex, its handicap. We try to hide it, 
to conquer it, but we can't— can't — and if women get 
the power they are struggling for, it will be a husk 
unless they have love too. 



A WOMAN ALONE 71 

Mrs. Vynor. But why can't we have both ? We 
are not stupid any more. 

Blanche, [Holds out her arms with a gesture of 
despair, then with a queer little laugh.] Ah ! , . . "We 
are what we are and we can go so far — let us go. . . . 
The leopard cannot change his spots nor the black man 
his skin, nor woman her nature . . . and nothing 
fights for its own as Nature does. . . . Oh, I have 
thought it over — all these years — thought and 
thought till I am tired of thinking. Women may 
reach out to the world with pride and joy feeling 
their capacities — and they have them — but in the 
end they come back to their own for happiness or — 
[with a little gasp] for peace. That does not mean 
that they are not to use the capacities, but . . . that 
they should be wise gardeners. 

Mrs. Vynor. And what am / to do ? 

Blanche. Go home — and think too — think it all 
over. ... I want you to go now [very gently as if it 
is an entreaty], I'm ill and tired. 

Mrs. Vynor. [Still a little scared.] You look so 
unhappy 

Blanche. I have been, I may be — I don't know. 
Perhaps I am very happy — I am waiting. So much 
of women's lives is spent in waiting. 

Mrs. Vynor. You are waiting for 

Blanche. [Desperately.] You mustn't question me. 
I can't bear it. . . . There are plenty of things in life 
for women — go home and take those you can reach to. 
Go home — and look pretty and laugh ; men are not won 



72 A WOMAN ALONE 

by tears — tell him that you love him — and be thankful 
for the sound of his voice — [In a half reckless, half 
scornful voice.] 

Mrs. Vynor. But there's such a thing as spirit. 

Blanche. Oh yes, there's such a thing as spirit ; 
but one has to make the best of life with the material 
there is to hand. It is foolish to suffer hunger and 
thirst, or to die of cold when water and food and 
shelter are near. 

Mrs. Vynor. [Firmly and surprised.] Mrs. Bowden, 
you don't understand — and you have changed so — you 
seem to have gone back — to be worsted somehow 

Blanche. Just now you said that men were 
cleverer and stronger than women 

Mrs. Vynor. Yes — yes — and they must be — for 
women are such hero-worshippers; they don't see it yet 
— they don't know it — but that's what the woman- 
movement means, for as women reach high they will 
want men to reach higher, so that they may love them 
still 

Blanche. [Quickly.] They want that more than 
anything in the world, and to be loved back. 

Mrs. Vynor. [Half despairingly.] Yes, more than 
anything in the world. [Exit. 

[Blanche stands quite still. 
[Re-enter Millicent from the other room. 

Millicent. I heard her go. 

Blanche. [Standing dazed.] I am glad she came, 
for at the last she said a wise thing — perhaps it is an 
upward movement. . . . But Millicent, what a Jugger- 



A WOMAN ALONE 73 

naut love is — women try to keep out of its way — and 
pay dearly if they succeed. Some throw themselves 
under it desperately, and some joyfully, as I shall — it 
is on every road — coming — or going . . . [Millicent 
nods her head, Blanche looks at the clock with a gasp.] 
... It must be time. 

Millicent. They will be here directly. . . . 

[They wait nervously listening and watching 
the clock. 
Blanche. [Desperately.] It is such a little way. The 
letter must bring him — and if he's angry and won't 

read it, he'll see the rose, and [Turns away. 

Millicent. He must come. 

Blanche. He must come . . . [Uplifted and 
happiness breaking over her face] I can feel that he 
will . . . [Restless, crosses the room, listens and 
returns.] I'll persuade him to go away from this house. 
. . . [Pause.] I've wandered up and down the stairs 
and buried my head in every cushion to drive back the 
agony that stupefied me — and the memory of it clings 
to the walls and to everything between them. ... I 
will make him take me to the country. Or we'll go 
abroad — together. ... I know he'll come, I can see 
him — and just how he will look. At first he will be 

a little cold and stiff 

Millicent. Jack would take me in his arms and 
cover me with kisses if he were making up a 
quarrel. 

Blanche. It hasn't been a quarrel — [half resenting] 
and Richard is not that sort of man. He'll come in 



74 A|WOMAN ALONE 

and hesitate, and say " You sent for me ? " And I 
shall say " Yes — yes." And then I shall go up to 
him — and he will stand still — and — Hark ! he is 
coming. [Listens.] Yes, they have come ! [Flies 
to door.] 

Millicent. [Holds her back.] It will only be a 
second longer. 

Blanche. [Transfixed.] One man's step — one. 

[She staggers back as the door opens. Enter 
Jack ; he stands quite still. She waits 
dumb and trembling. 

Millicent. Jack, speak — \he hesitates] — you must. 

Blanche. Was he there ? 

Jack. He has been there — he has gone. 

Blanche. Gone! 

Jack. Three hours ago. 

Blanche. [In a dead voice.] Where ? — when does 
he return ? 

Jack. They don't know. He is going on some 
expedition — they thought two years — or less or 
more — they were quite vague. 

Blanche. Two years! ... I shall be dead. . . . 
It won't matter, I shall be dead. [They go forward, 
she makes a little sign to keep them back.] Where is 
the letter — and my rose ? 

Jack. I put them into a little cardboard box. 
They are to forward letters when he telegraphs an 
address. I thought it might go with them. 

Blanche. I see. Thank you, Jack. [Gently, but in 
a cold stately voice, as they go forward again.] Don't 



A WOMAN ALONE 75 

touch me. , . . You will go now . . . you won't 
mind ? I must be alone. 

Millicent. Mayn't I stay a little ? 

Blanche. I think not dear — if you will forgive 
me. [Turns to Jack and says gently] Take her away. 
I must be alone if I am to keep my senses or even to 
live. But I shall never forget what you two have 
done for me this night. 

Jack. If there is anything more in the world 

Blanche. I know — you will do it. [She holds out 
her hands as if entreating, and they go.] 

[Blanche alone. She goes to the chair by the 
fire again and sits very still with her 
hands on her lap. Enter Servant with a 
note. 

Servant. The messenger is waiting for an answer, 
ma'am. 

Blanche. Ah ! [Rises to her feet, sees the hand- 
writing, hurriedly reads letter, and her excitement dies 
away. She sits againi and she says in a dull voice.] 
Bring me the writing-pad. [Looks towards writing- 
table. He brings it.] Come back in two minutes. 

[Exit Servant. 

Blanche. [Reading note aloud.] "lam very happy 
again. I told him it was your doing. I love you. — 
Clare Vynor." [Blanche gives a long sigh. Writes. 
The pad is on her lap.] "I am glad. Be happy 
always." [Rest indistinct. Folds note. Servant enters] 
Put this down, and here is the answer. 

[Gives him pad and note. Exit Servant. 



76 A WOMAN ALONE 

Blanche. [Turns to the fire, again. A long pause. 
Puts her face in her hands. Starts, listens, as if she 
heard something, shakes her head as if it couldrit 
concern her. 

The door behind her opens, and Richard enters and 
hesitates. She slowly turns, sees him, and starts to her 
■feet.] Richard ! Rich-ard ! [She holds out her arms 
for one minute. But he stands as if paralysed, and 
she drops them and speaks in a voice she can hardly 
control.] They said you had gone. 

Richard. [Coldly.] I had left something behind 
and went back — I found the note — and the rose. 

[She stands scared and waiting. He doesn't 
move. 

Blanche. [At last manages to say.] And you 
forgive ? 

Richard. There was never any question of for- 
giving between us. We have both been wrong — 
both. I was a brute. [She shakes her head and 
shudders as if at the remembrance.] I was going away 
again 

Blanche. [Under her breath.] But you haven't 
gone. [Then passionately^] Oh, these years, what 
they have been ! 

Richard. I thought you were content with a life 
of your own. 

Blanche. [Shaking her head a little.] When I was 
with you I wanted to be part of your life. [Then with 
a burst of emotion.] . . . And to be loved — all women 
want that — more than anything in the world. 



A WOMAN ALONE 77 

Richard. [Under his breath.] So do men, but they 
won't own it — or don't know it. [Pause. Almost 
doggedly and coldly.] I took the kisses off your 
rose. 

Blanche. Oh — [She stands still staring at him, 
paralysed. 

Richard. [Goes on as if speaking half to himself.] 
I know this — that I love you more than my life, and 
the thing I have longed for most in the world was to 
hold you in my arms again. 

[She gives a cry of joy. They meet, and he 
holds her close. 

Blanche. And you will not go away again ? 

Richard. Never without you — beloved. 



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